Singer Salvage
by tarsus4survivor
Summary: Castiel goes to the scrapyard when he needs time to heal and rest. Bobby, Sam, and Dean finally find out. One-shot.


The Winchesters barely occur to Castiel. They're on the move, and warded, and probably pissed off with him. So when he gets beaten to the point of falling apart and only just escapes with his life, he doesn't call them. He needs somewhere semi-safe because with his grace leaking like this, it will be far too easy for his brothers to track him down. Somehow, he ends up at the salvage yard. Unintentionally; just flying and hoping and his haggard wings take him there.

He's not foolish or misguided enough to think Bobby will 'give a damn' as Dean might say, so he doesn't approach the house. But the yard itself is as well-warded as inside. Cas feels like he's trespassing, and doesn't feel right entering one of the cars to rest on padded cushions so he just curls up on the ground beside a wreck of metal. That's the first time.

The second time, his back is shredded and his head is dripping from where the screws entered his skull and he's desperate for comfort. He folds himself up on the floor of a little blue car; one as broken and dented as he is, and feels a modicum of safety in being surrounded and hidden.

It's his legs that are hurt the next time and when his wings drop him back into the little blue car, he doesn't bother getting out. He heals eventually, and clears the bloodstains with his grace, leaving no trace of his presence.

But then he starts to fall, and he gets hurt more and more and he can't zap away the marks anymore, so he stays outside the car, not wanting to damage it. He curls up outside half under a scrap heap and falls asleep.

His wings get hurt; bitten and torn by a hellhound and he barely makes it to the salvage yard. Hellhound venom is coursing through his veins, making him confused and scared and hurt. He crawls back under the scrap heap, huddles, and starts to cry.

After that he gets trapped in a ring of holy fire, and the demons torment him with torches and blades and heavenly words that leave him writhing. He doesn't remember getting out. Just remembers waking on the floor of the blue car, blood staining the upholstery and interior, the taste of ash in his mouth. He has burns trailing all over his body. His trenchcoat is ripped, stained, and he can't fix it. He sinks back down to the floor. Sinks in on himself, forehead pressed against a mat, and breathes, his body trembling with fatigue or pain or adrenaline or fear.

After that, the car is already stained, so Cas sees no point in avoiding it. He feels safer inside.

The angels break his back. And it's lucky his wings are still working because he'd be dead if they weren't. He can't curl this time. Can't really move at all, so when he lands and falls atop the seats, he remains splayed there, every twitch a thunderstorm of pain. It takes almost a week for him to heal.

The Winchesters are pissed that he went dark for so long. He tries to apologize, but doesn't explain because he knows they're right. It was his fault. It's always his fault.

He starts to go to the car even when he's not injured. He likes the comfort. The protection.

But then he loses his wings. And the first time the Winchesters need advice from Bobby, Cas goes along. He walks out the back while the others converse. He finds his little blue car, opens the door with reverence, curls up on the seats, and cries.

He gets his wings back. It's demons with hellhound venom and he barely knows up from down but he finds his car. And it's just his luck that he crashes into the side of it instead of landing quietly. He crawls inside and sits on the floor, knees against his chest, arms wrapped around them, his head buried, and he can't stop shaking.

The door handle pops and Cas squeezes tight against the opposite one, head up, his body pulsing with fear. It's Bobby Singer who pulls the door open and squints inside. "Cas?"

Oh no, oh no, oh no. He's gonna be angry. So angry. Castiel has wrecked his car. It's stained all over, practically painted with blood, and he's an unwanted guest and he should just—Cas flies off. Tries to. But with the hellhound venom coursing through his veins, he doesn't make it more than a few feet past the door. His legs won't support him when he lands and he crumples into a heap, head spinning. He tries to push up, arms shaking, and hears the car door close.

Bobby is swearing up a storm. "What the hell, you idjit! What the hell you think you're doing?!"

"I'm sorry," Cas's arm collapses beneath him. He sobs. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry." That's all he's good for. Regret and apologies and pain.

Bobby kneels next to him, and a hand settles on his back; heavy, soft, and comforting, but he doubts that's what it's intended to be. "Cas?" Bobby's voice is gruff.

Cas sobs. He curls into the ground, his head pulsing and aching and heavy and he barely knows what he's apologizing for, just knows that Bobby is mad and it's all his fault and he deserves it. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I swear, I didn't mean to do anything wrong, I'll fix it, please, just let me fix it, Bobby, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I'll fix it."

"The hell're you talkin' about?"

"I don't know. Please, I'm sorry."

"You're bleedin' all over the place." Bobby finds the gash in his back, long and deep and wide; almost tearing him in two.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

"Just shut up, ya idjit." His voice is off. Shaky, almost, or panicked, and he presses down hard on Cas's back.

Cas screams. He tries to writhe away. "Please, I'm sorry."

"I'm not tryin' to hurt ya. You're bleedin' out. Gotta keep pressure on it. Stay still."

"I'm okay, I'm okay, I—please—" His head spins, His vision fades. He loses consciousness.

* * *

He wakes warm and wrapped and bone-tired. Bandages are hugging his torso and a blanket is draped over him. He's inside. Inside Bobby's house, on the cot by the window. He jerks up, choking off the cry of pain in his throat, and a hand grabs his shoulder, "Lay down, ya idjit. You're gonna tear your stitches." The hand pushes him back down and Cas is too weak and disoriented to fight it. It's Bobby beside him, flipping the folded edge of the blanket back over him once he settles onto the cot.

Cas's head is pounding. His back is on fire. "What happened?"

"You tell me. You showed up in that little blue ford with a rift in your back the size of the grand canyon. Took me near two hours to stitch it up, so don't ruin all my hard work by movin' around."

"Sorry."

Bobby darkens. "What the hell were you doin' out there? Couldn't make it to the house?" His voice is careful, deliberate, like it's a trick question or he knows the answer but wants to hear Cas say it.

Cas's face twists in confusion. "What? The house?"

Bobby's face is shadowed, heavy. He moves on. "Dean and Sam are on their way."

Cas squints at the man. "Why?"

"Because you're hurt and they're worried."

Cas is still disoriented, must be. Nothing is making sense. "They're in the middle of a hunt."

Bobby just shakes his head at him. He moves back, "How often do you use that car?"

Cas's throat jumps. Right. "I'm sorry. I can clean it."

Bobby scoffs. "Ain't no cleanin' that thing. I'm fixin' to burn it. Answer the question."

"Burn it? Why?"

"Cause it looks like you drenched yourself in blood and rolled around in it every day for a year. You gonna answer me now?"

"Not often."

"Yearly, monthly, weekly, daily? Every hour on the hour? What?"

"Weekly I suppose, recently."

Bobby closes his eyes. His head tilts backward toward the heavens, shaking back and forth. "Why?" He tilts forward, grabbing Cas's arm, eyes wide, "Why?"

"I… It's warded. Sometimes I need a place to recover."

"Why wouldn't you come inside? Call the Winchesters? What, you just fix to sit in there until you either heal or die?! Do you even treat yourself at all?!"

"I… sorry."

"Shut up." Bobby sits back. "Shut up and go to sleep, I can't deal with your ass right now. Winchester's will be here soon."

"Sorry." Cas turns his head to the other side, spasming with a flash of pain when it pulls on the muscles of his back. He hopes to never wake up.

Bobby settles a hand on his back just above the wound. It's comforting. "You idjit," he mumbles, something endearing buried in the tone.

* * *

Cas wakes to light burning his face, the torch just before his eyes, and he wrenches backward. He falls, hitting the floor with a grunt and recognizing the cot beside him. Not a torch. The window. Sunlight. He struggles upright, groaning, half-tangled in the blankets. Bobby Singer's house.

Someone comes running into the room, "Cas?" It's Dean's voice.

"Yeah. Sorry." He doesn't even know what he's apologizing for. It's always something.

Dean drops down beside him, gripping him below the shoulders and hoisting because Cas's legs aren't cooperating. Neither are his arms.

Dean hefts him back up onto the cot. He grabs the blankets from the floor while simultaneously pushing on Cas's shoulder, "Lay down."

Cas does, on his side. He's panting, he realizes, wheezing and shaking like that fall and struggle took everything out of him. Dean drapes the blankets over him, rubbing his shoulder. "You alright?" he asks gruffly.

Cas nods.

"Good," says Dean, "I'm gonna get Sam and Bobby. We need to talk."

Oh no. "Sorry," says Cas, "Sorry, I… we don't have to talk. As soon as I can fly again, I'll leave, it shouldn't take long, I'll—I won't bother you. I can go outside or I—I'll—I can get out of your way right now. I can—do you know where my shoes are?" Surely he can walk if he needs to. "I'm sorry that I—"

Dean covers Cas's mouth, looking pale and… "Stop," he says.

"Sorry," Cas mumbles into his hand.

Dean pulls his fingers away. "God, just stop."

"Castiel," Cas corrects.

"I know." Dean swallows. "Be right back." He staggers just a little walking away.

"Are you okay?" Cas starts to sit up. Tries to.

Dean waves him back down, looking dazed and pale. "Stop. Stay there. Don't move. Don't talk. Just… stop."

He's back soon after, Sam beside him and Bobby just beyond. Sam's face is pinched in concern. "You okay, Cas? How d'you feel?"

"Fine. Thank you, Sam."

Sam sits in the chair beside him. Dean steals one from the kitchen. Bobby sits a few feet back on the armrest of the couch.

Cas's throat bobs. "Did I… I'm sorry. Whatever I did, I'm sorry. I'll fix it."

"Apologize one more time," Bobby says, "I'm'a kick your ass."

Cas presses his lips together, but no one is forthcoming with information and it's freaking him out. "Are you kicking me out? If it's because of the car, I…" he looks over at Bobby and trails off. "I didn't mean to bother anyone."

No one seems to mind his rambling. When he stops, Dean leans forward, arms on the back of the seat because he's sitting reversed. "You get hurt a lot, Cas?"

"...No?"

"Bobby says you use that car once a week to… heal."

"I don't only use it because I'm hurt, it's just… it's safe, there. The yard is warded. I like to… I like that car. You don't have to burn it, Bobby."

"When did you start using it?" Sam asks.

Cas moves to sitting, ignoring the crashing wave of pain and Dean and Bobby's warning glares. "What is this about? Was that car important? I didn't mean to damage it. I can… I can fix it or… what did I do? Just tell me what I did. I'm—" a glance at Bobby—"I'll… what are you gonna do?"

Sam is quick to reassure him. "Nothing, Cas. We're not… we just wanna talk."

"Talk," he repeats. "About what?"

"About where you go when you're injured. About you not having a safe place to rest up," Sam tells him.

Dean tags on, "About why you don't tell anyone when you are injured. How often and severely you've been injured."

"So… you want _me_ to talk?"

"Yes."

"But I don't understand why any of that… matters. Shouldn't we be brainstorming how to stop… whatever it is we're stopping. Something, I'm sure. I think the demons were going on about a 'her'? I don't… It's fuzzy."

"We're talking about you because you're more important. And clearly, this has been a long time coming."

"What do you mean?"

"That car was drenched with blood and ash and feathers, Cas. Not a peaceful place to rest up. How many times have you gone there?" Dean's voice is tight. His eyes are dark. He's angry. Angry and Cas can't apologize for not knowing the answer. For making him angry.

"Um…" Cas looks to Sam, to Bobby, back to Dean, "Should I have counted?"

"When was the first time?" Sam asks.

Cas hesitates, not entirely sure what he means. "In the car…? Or…? because I…"

"Coming here," says Dean.

"It was back during the apocalypse."

Sam groans, head bowing.

Dean pinches the bridge of his nose. "That was seven years ago, Cas."

Cas looks at them blankly. "Yes…?"

Bobby huffs. "No wonder that car looks the way it does."

"Why didn't you come to us?!" Dean is yelling at him.

"You were… angry with me," Cas says, voice small.

"Every single time?!"

Cas shakes his head. He adds, feeling guilty, "No. It just wasn't your problem."

"Or mine either, I'm guessing." Bobby tilts forward, "or was there a different reason you couldn't make it the extra fifty feet into the house?"

Cas shakes his head mutely.

"And today, you would've just sat in that car with your back gaping open, bleedin' to death?" Bobby asks.

"To be fair, today I was… more disoriented than usual. The demons injected me with hellhound venom."

Sam leans forward and grasps his sleeve. "Do we need to treat that?"

Cas shakes his head, surprised at the concern. "I'm fine now. It worked its way out of my system."

Dean is tense and dark. "Would you have died if Bobby hadn't heard you? If you'd managed to flutter off before he could help?"

"It's… possible," Cas acknowledges.

"Why wouldn't you come to us with something like that?" Dean's so loud. "We hit you up with all kinds of injuries."

Of course they do. "I'm an angel. I can heal you."

"And you don't think we can help you at all?"

Cas can't figure out what to say. "I… I'm sure you could, but it wasn't even really an option. That's not how… " He shakes his head and changes tracks. "I didn't want to upset you."

Dean's chair scoots forward. "Cas, if you're bleeding out, we should be upset!"

"Sorry."

Bobby raises an eyebrow.

Cas lays back down because his back is an ocean of pain and his muscles are shaking.

Dean sighs. "I'm worried, Cas. What happens the next time you get torn up because you're out there alone without backup or a car or even a place to sleep?"

"I don't know."

Sam shifts the blanket higher. "Maybe you could stay with us. Work with us, travel with us, and then you wouldn't have to deal with this crap alone."

Cas doesn't respond. He breathes through the pain, trying not to be too obvious about it.

"Or we could set up something in the impala so you can find us and get help if you're injured or tired or lonely or whatever."

Cas just sort of nods. Then he actually figures out what Sam just said and he frowns. "Wait, no. That would put you in danger. Others could find you."

"No one else would know about it."

Cas shakes his head, eyes half-lidded, blinking slowly. "They would find out."

Sam sighs. He shifts on the chair. "We'll brainstorm other ideas while you get some rest, alright?"

Dean nods slowly. "Go back to sleep, Cas, you look tired."

Cas shakes his head. "I'm fine."

"You almost bled out this morning."

"And I'm fine now."

Dean raises an eyebrow. "Not too long ago you fell out of bed and couldn't get back in without help."

"I…could have," Cas says, but he shifts under the scrutiny and pain jolts up his spine. He stills, trying to keep his face blank.

Sam's lips thin. "Go to sleep."

Aftershocks are firing through his back. Cas closes his eyes. It does feel safer in here. Walls, blankets, the presence of people he can trust to watch his back. Maybe... maybe making a way for him to find Dean and Sam is a good idea.


End file.
